


Lucid

by PepperPrints



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-07
Updated: 2012-10-07
Packaged: 2017-11-15 21:01:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/531660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperPrints/pseuds/PepperPrints
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Maybe I'm dead too – and this is hell.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lucid

**Author's Note:**

> For the 30_kisses challenge. Prompt: the space between dream and reality. 
> 
> This story is based on the viral video advertisements for Resident Evil 5 (episode four in particular) which can easily be found online. Warnings for themes of suicide and PTSD.

 

“How's the speech coming?”

 

Chris grunted a little as Claire draped an arm across his chest, leaning over him; personal space really didn't exist between siblings. After coming home from his mission, he was spending some time with Claire, since he hadn't been advised to stay anywhere alone. It felt belittling, to be honest, but he really hadn't really had the time to catch up with Claire, so it sounded like a good idea. Unfortunately, he hadn't exactly been in the right state of mind to reminisce.

 

“It's not,” he said bluntly. He actually spent most of the morning staring dully at the computer screen. He'd type one sentence, realize it was shit, then delete it and try again – rinse and repeat. “Everything I write sounds like a bad movie script, and to be honest I'd rather not think about it.”

 

“Well, they're not awarding your for literary skills,” Claire pointed out, laughing when Chris nudged her back with his elbow – albeit halfheartedly. “Hey! I'm just being honest. Just make it short and sweet, okay?”

 

“Yeah, sure,” he replied, sounding unconvinced, and Claire gave him a squeeze before drawing back.

 

Chris really didn't know how he was supposed to get up and say this, if writing it was hard enough. All he'd really managed to get out was what an honor it was to receive the award – and that was the truth, but a part of him wanted to avoid the whole thing altogether.

 

Turned out that it didn't matter much, because he didn't end up presenting his speech at all.

 

–

 

“Chris, are you okay?”

 

They led him away from the podium after he had started shaking. Dodging the press and the cameras was a trial in itself, and he wasn't sure how much Sheva had to push to get her way to him from the audience. Chris was sitting, hunched over and clutching the bottle of water they had given him; it didn't help too much.

 

“Yeah,” he said hazily, knowing it didn't sound convincing in the slightest. “Just stage fright, I guess.”

 

Sheva reached to touch his face, and with his head bent down, he didn't see that properly. The touch to his cheek felt sudden and startling, and Chris jumped more than he should have, water spilling down his suit front. Chris dropped the whole bottle, nearly losing his balance entirely, despite how he was already sitting down.

 

“Chris!” she gasped, and she grabbed his wrists, steadying him. He fought with her on sheer instinct, and it took another firm call of his name to snap him into stillness. Chris was short of breath again, and Sheva stared at him. “That's stage fright?”

 

Chris realized his hands were shaking in her hold, and he stared at them, unable to will them into stopping.

 

“What happened?” Sheva asked quietly, covering one of his trembling hands in both of hers.

 

Chris breathed out shakily, and he felt his lips turn upwards with no genuine mirth. “I had a nightmare while I was still awake,” he said.

 

–

 

“Are you going to see a doctor?”

 

Chris gave Jill a tired glance over his coffee; he had two cups already, and he still didn't feel anymore awake. The diner was small but bustling, and the waitress was always prompt to refill his cup once he'd emptied it. “Don't give me that look,” chided Jill firmly, brushing her hair back over her shoulder in an absentminded gesture – it was brown again, and Chris found that comforting. “I see mine once a week now.”

 

“Jill, that's different,” he sighed, rubbing tiredly at his face. “They controlled you; they played with your head.”

 

“All war plays with your head,” countered Jill, looking ready to say more, but she cut short when their food arrived. It was actually getting closer to lunchtime, but the waitress was smart not to argue with Jill about it when she wanted bacon and pancakes. Jill's recovery was still in the early stages, and she had started getting back on indulging the kind of things she had been missing: breakfast was one of them. “I was watching the broadcast, and Sheva told me what happened.”

 

Chris said nothing, idly picking at his fries. He hadn't joined Jill in ordering the works of a sugary, greasy breakfast, but his own choice wasn't that much healthier. Even so, he barely touched his burger. He didn't have much appetite when he knew this was what Jill would be talking about.

 

“We're worried, you know,” said Jill, her tone softer now but no less serious. “Have you talked to Claire?”

 

Chris shrugged his shoulders, knowing the hard stare Jill gave him meant that she wouldn't accept that as his sole answer. “Not since I left her place,” he admitted.

 

“I don't like that either,” Jill told him firmly. “You shouldn't be on your own if you're having trouble.”

 

Chris was ready to reply, assuring Jill that he wasn't 'having trouble', but the same bustling waitress nudged Jill's elbow in her hurry as she passed. The motion sent Jill's knife scraping across her plate, and the shrill sound nearly made Chris jump out of his seat. His coffee mug was upturned by a sweep of his hand, shattering on the floor with a crash that went through Chris like a gunshot.

 

The waitress was apologizing and Jill was saying his name, but it all sounded distant and unreal. He shouldn't have been taken off guard like that – he should have reacted faster; mistakes like that would kill him in a place like this. Wait, where? He wasn't here. He was somewhere else. He wasn't--

 

“Chris!” Both of Jill's hands were on his face now, and Chris blinked several times before she came into focus. She was suddenly standing, and the waitress looked very worried – so did several of the other patrons who were tactless enough to stare.

 

“Come on,” coaxed Jill quietly, keeping one hand on his while the other fished out a few bills from her pocket. It was probably a lot more money than necessary. “Let's get you home, okay?”

 

–

 

“Do you not like therapists?”

 

There was a question. Chris scoffed and tilted his head back. “Is that a yes?” the doctor asked, making Chris sigh.

 

“I don't want to be here, no,” said Chris honestly. He heard a pen scratching and it made him wince. “Is that a bad thing to say?”

 

“Not particularly,” the doctor replied, turning the page over in his notepad. “Most men of your standing are stubborn about such things. PTSD is not anything to be ashamed about in this day and age, Mr. Redfield. Especially not for a soldier such as yourself, who has seen and survived so much horror.”

 

For some reason, that made Chris chuckle faintly. “You say that like it's over,” he observed.

 

That actually made the doctor pause, flipping back through his notes. “Well excuse me if I'm mistaken,” he said, adjusting his glasses idly. “But I was to understand you succeeded in your mission, and the head of Umbrella is deceased.”

 

“Wouldn't stop with him,” said Chris simply, “and besides, I don't know that yet.”

 

The doctor turned back to a fresh page, his pen at the ready. “Don't know what yet?”

 

“If he's dead,” replied Chris simply. “I saw him die before; it didn't stick.”

 

There was a long pause, the silence almost tangibly heavy, before the doctor started writing again. Chris frowned and he peered over at him. “Does that make me sound insane?” he asked, more accusing than curious.

 

“Not considering the circumstance,” the doctor responded carefully. “Have you been seeing any ghosts?”

 

“What is that supposed to mean?” asked Chris, and when the doctor did not reply, he reluctantly continued. “I only see memories – they feel as real as when they happened.”

 

“Hm,” intoned the doctor mildly. “Very good then, but I'm afraid your hour is up.”

 

–

 

“Haven't you had enough?”

 

“Probably,” replied Chris hazily. He realized quickly that alcohol was a much quicker, and much cheaper, remedy than therapy, so he had been spending the last few nights hopping bars. He didn't tell Jill he missed his last session – in fact, he didn't tell Jill much of anything. He had been avoiding contact. He didn't know what he would say if he did see her, or Sheva, or Claire.

 

The bartender frowned, and she gently tugged the bottle from his fingers. “Why don't you go home?” she asked, and she offered him a smile. “Handsome guy like you shouldn't be locked up in here all night.”

 

She was likely just flattering him to make him pliant to the suggestion, rather than really thinking that. Either way, Chris wasn't really swayed by charm right now. He was as disinterested in that as he was with everything these days.

 

“Yeah,” muttered Chris quietly, agreeing without really knowing why. “Thanks.” He left her a nice tip as he went, not really thinking anything of it – though he should have, because he wasn't in a nice part of town, and dropping money like that got him noticed.

 

They followed him down two blocks, and they weren't subtle about it. Chris felt a tension building at the base of his spine, his breaths slow but hard to control. He didn't know what to think when he almost welcomed this. A fight would make sense, at least. He knew how to act in a fight.

 

A hand grabbed at the back of his collar, and some vague threat was uttered, but Chris didn't even pay it any mind. He whipped around and hit the man straight in his face. That must have broken his nose, given the amount of wailing he made when he fell back, and his friends came forward. Chris couldn't even think clearly. The alcohol made his motions sloppy, but he was a trained soldier and these guys were crooks. Chris could have beaten them in his sleep.

 

Except, he only remembered punching out two of them, and there were three bodies groaning on the ground.

 

Chris shook his head and he blamed the booze. He stumbled back in step, clutching at his head, and he realized despite how little effort he exerted, he was breathing incredibly hard.

 

There was no need to overthink it.

 

–

 

“Did you know they haven't gotten rid of it yet?”

 

Chris had taken the knowledge bad enough, so he couldn't imagine how Jill herself felt when she realized that there was still a marker in a graveyard bearing her name. They had thought she had been lost in the fall, so they buried an empty casket, and Chris had visited that spot almost every day for weeks.

 

He came back now, his hands shoved into his pockets in attempt to ward off the cold. The graveyard was mostly empty, and the frost on the grass crunched under his boots. For a long time, Chris had believed that this was all he had left of Jill. Now she was back, and this place seemed so haunted.

 

He wondered if Jill had come here, and he really wished she wouldn't. Seeing your own grave must have been the deepest sort of terror imaginable. It was unnerving enough for Chris to come here now, and it wasn't his name on the marker.

 

It almost would have been, though, if Jill hadn't sacrificed herself at the mansion.

 

Chris wondered if it wouldn't have been better that way. He had narrowly escaped death so many times... it almost seemed to be chasing him now, but it never really caught him. It just came close enough for the threat to be real, to give him just enough terror, and then it let him go again. Death was teasing him.

 

When he reached his destination, Chris went very still. Someone had been here before him, and they left roses on Jill's grave.

 

They were fresh, obviously having been left here today or they would have been touched by the frost that had coated the entire ground. Chris was frozen, unsure why it seemed so dangerous to touch them, but he urged himself forward. His fingers brushed the petals, and despite the cold of the air, they were warm.

 

Everyone who cared for Jill knew that she was alive. Who would have--?

 

There were footsteps, crunching against the frosted grass, and Chris whipped around so quickly that it was dizzying. He saw something – he knew he did – but then he blinked and there was nothing.

 

No. He _had_ seen something. Chris started running, his quickened breaths visible in the cold air. He moved between the rows of stones, through the trees, not daring to name what he hoped he'd find.

 

“Where are you?” he shouted out, and the sound echoed back on him. Empty.

 

–

 

“Chris, are you there?”

 

He had let the phone ring until the answering machine kicked in, and the sound of Jill's voice gave him pause.

 

“If you aren't, I hope it's because you're doing something good for yourself,” she said, but she didn't sound at all convinced of that. Chris was sitting in his apartment, staring at the ashtray which was slowly building a heavy collection of cigarette butts. “If you are, I really wish you'd talk to me.”

 

Stamping out his cigarette, Chris stood up and left the room. Jill was still talking, but he couldn't bear to hear it. He went to the bathroom and he turned on the water, gazing tiredly at his reflection as he waited for the tub to fill.

 

It was too hot to think of shutting the windows in this place – it would be suffocating. The choice was the heat or the noise, and the former ended up being the worse, so he suffered through the latter. Chris bent over the sink, closing his eyes and trying not to hear the traffic, or the raised voices, or Jill's message still continuing to be recorded.

 

Chris turned on the sink, splashing water over his face and rubbing at his eyes. When he opened them again, black spots stained his vision. He blinked in effort to clear them, and it didn't do too much. There was one dark spot in the corner of his gaze which was particularly stubborn, and he--

 

Chris turned his head, whipping around fast enough that it was dizzying. He thought he saw... something. He didn't want to name what he had been afraid of. Chris didn't even know why he thought of it at all. It seemed too surreal.

 

It got to be too much, so he dropped himself into the tub. He didn't even bother taking off his clothes. It seemed like it wouldn't matter much either way. At this point, it was hard to care. He sunk in, and he bent forward, shoving his head beneath the water.

 

It was quieter like this. The water was cold and it blocked the noise along with fighting the heat. He closed his eyes and he exhaled, feeling the bubbles of his breath spilling back against his face as they rose to the surface.

 

Something started at the base of his neck. He thought he had imagined it, but then contact continued, gloved fingers tracing down the outline of his bent spine, and it felt unmistakable. He shot up, gasping out and wide-eyed. He whipped his head around, but he was alone.

 

–

 

“You know it's closed off for construction up ahead, right?”

 

Chris barely acknowledged the warning from the traffic cop. He knew that; it was the exact reason why he had come here. This was an older part of town, and it wasn't very busy here to begin with, but when the repairs started, the bridge was blocked from traffic. Chris parked on the roadside next to it, stepping out and closing the door behind him.

 

The roadblocks weren't hard to navigate around. They didn't do construction at night, obviously, so pedestrians weren't at risk if they wanted to pass through. Chris only had to step over a few signs, and he was past it.

 

He moved to the edge, bracing his elbows against the stone as he peered down. A train passed below, loud and rushing, and he rubbed his hands together.

 

He felt like he was going crazy.

 

Bracing his hands on the ledge, Chris pushed himself up. Surprisingly, his legs didn't feel shaky. He felt perfectly steady as he straightened up, his feet inching closer to the edge. The drop would be enough. It had enough distance and the ground below was hard.

 

No. Chris closed his eyes, exhaling deeply, and he began to turn away again when a siren sounded. The light caught his eye, and he raised his hand to shield himself from it, but it was already too late.

 

Where was he? He felt his heartbeat jump and he heard gunshots. He couldn't tell if they were real or if they were memories. He was falling – and was that real or not?

 

No, not falling. Fingers had hooked into the back of his collar and they were _pulling_. Dragging him back from the ledge.

 

Or maybe that was what dying felt like: someone catching you.

 

–

 

“Is that really how you'd die?”

 

Chris went very still. His chest rose and fell sharply, and his vision spun. He was on his back, and the figure that stared down at him was a specter: all in black and all too familiar. Albert Wesker stood above him, his eyes glowing faintly from behind his sunglasses, and Chris felt his body freeze up.

 

“No,” breathed Chris faintly, stumbling as he tried to push himself up. “No – not you. We killed you. You're dead.”

 

“Apparently not,” Wesker responded smoothly, pressing forward and hovering over him. “How else would I be here?”

 

Chris laughed. He hadn't meant to, but he laughed, and the noise was a broken, weak thing. It was utterly without mirth, and it made him sound insane. “Maybe I fell,” he replied, grinning darkly at the thought. “Maybe I'm dead too – and this is hell.” He could think of no other option, if Wesker was here too.

 

The response actually made Wesker pause for a moment, and he chuckled too, shortly and quietly. “Does that make me the Devil?” he asked, dropping to one knee next to Chris. “I almost like the sound of that more than being God.”

 

That, or Chris was dreaming again, but it didn't usually feel like this. He never dreamed of new horror; it was always the same memories of terror, again and again, refusing to leave him. Chris stumbled back, trying to rise and falling. His limbs felt heavy as lead. “You're not real...”

 

“I'm disappointed,” said Wesker coldly, reaching up to grab Chris's face as he scrutinized him. “You survived so stubbornly until now. What's made you so weak?”

 

Chris couldn't find the strength to respond. None of this felt real. Wesker couldn't be alive. He couldn't be here, touching him and talking to him. Wesker had died and everything was over – he couldn't come back again. “I need to wake up,” he managed hazily.

 

Wesker's eyes glowed dimly, and Chris could see him smile. “I do recall the fabled solution to this situation,” he replied quietly.

 

Wesker lowered his head, and he pressed their lips together.

 

–

 

“Are you awake?”

 

Chris couldn't answer since honestly, he wasn't sure if he was or not. Chris blinked several times, finding himself on his back, staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling with hazy vision. He didn't know where he was right away, but scents wafted up from the next room, and it was Claire's voice that was speaking to him.

 

“Chris?” she called, stepping out into his line of vision. She had a plate in one hand, and the other nudged him gently. “C'mon, sleepyhead, I made you breakfast.”

 

Chris pieced his surroundings together slowly. This was Claire's apartment, and he was splayed out on her couch. He couldn't remember how he came here, but she didn't look mad at him, and he was in one piece. He stared up at her, wondering if she was actually there or not, and his lack of response soon gave Claire sincere concern.

 

“Chris, what's wrong?” she asked, and she sat on the arm of the couch, setting his plate on the coffee table. “You look like you had a nightmare.”

 

That was a word for it. Chris sunk back, and his eyes drifted shut again. “I don't know,” he responded slowly, uncertain of how else he could describe it. “Maybe.”

 

Claire found his hand and she squeezed it tight, reassuring him through touch. He wanted to ask her what happened, or how he came to be back here with her again. He couldn't remember; all he did know was that the night before he had gone to the bridge and he... he saw something impossible. Had he been dreaming?

 

Had he jumped, or had he been caught?


End file.
